


Hot and Cold

by dissolvedingirl (imadra_blue)



Series: Psychosexual Developments [3]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Canon - TV, Character Study, Disturbing Themes, Drama, First Kiss, M/M, Missing Scene, Romance, Season/Series 09, Sexual Repression, Slice of Life, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/dissolvedingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hotch and Reid are playing a game of emotional hot and cold, but they never decided which one of them was 'it'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot and Cold

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta Reader:** Many, many thanks to [emotionalmorphine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalmorphine) for their generous advice. I wouldn't have made it this far without them.  
>  **Notes:** Takes place throughout Season 9. I write to music, so I made a soundtrack for this series. If you would like to listen to it, please go [here](http://8tracks.com/dissolvedingirl/psychosexual-developments-a-hotch-reid-fanmix).
> 
> Let's enjoy the season premiere tomorrow! :D

…

> _"All natural happiness thus seems infected with a contradiction. The breath of the sepulchre surrounds it." – William James_

…

The moment everyone else left the BAU, Spencer marched up to Hotch's office. During the flight home from Glendale, he had hung on tenterhooks about whether Hotch was going to leave the team or not. He couldn't wait any longer.

As soon as Spencer appeared in the doorway, Hotch glanced up from his paperwork. But Spencer suddenly couldn't find the words he wanted to ask. Fear gripped his chest with ice cold fingers. He didn't want to lose anyone else, not after he had lost Maeve. He chewed on his lips and tried to think of a way to express his thoughts without sounding like a whiny little boy.

"I like the haircut. I think I forgot to tell you," Hotch said, studying Spencer.

"I—what?" Spencer asked, touching his recently shorn hair. He hadn't gotten much response to it when he had first cut it. But then, that had been shortly after Strauss's funeral. "Er, thanks."

"You're welcome. Is there something you need?"

Spencer took a deep breath and prepared a casual question about Hotch's future in his mind. It sounded professional, reasonable, and mature. But when he opened his mouth, words just tumbled out with no regard to his dignity. "Please don't leave me, Hotch."

Hotch stared at him, eyebrows shooting up and lips parting. Spencer realized how pathetic that sounded. It was probably the worst way he could have expressed his desire for Hotch to remain in his position. Swallowing back his panic, Spencer fled Hotch's office. He got halfway down the stairs before Hotch grabbed his wrist.

"Get back in my office. Now." Neither Hotch's tone nor his drill sergeant glare left any room for argument. Spencer returned to the office as if under compulsion, his wrist still warm from Hotch's touch.

Hotch followed Spencer back into the office. "I wanted to wait until tomorrow to fully explain to the team, but I'm not going to be the next section chief."

"You're not?"

"No. The Bureau believes I am better placed in the field than in administration. For that, I am grateful."

Spencer smiled in relief, feeling like his heart had finally started beating again after a week. "I knew it. I knew you couldn't stand a desk job. JJ didn't believe me, told me I didn't understand, but I knew it."

Hotch shook his head. "Of course you knew it. You know everything, right?"

"Of course I don't know everything. It's impossible to know everything. Our model of science is incapable of measuring—wait, that was a joke, wasn't it?"

A rare chuckle escaped Hotch. "Yes, Reid. That was a joke."

"I didn't know you joked. See, I don't know everything."

Hotch studied him, his gaze smoky. "Cute." His voice had gone an octave lower, as it often had when he drew closer to Spencer. But he moved no closer. The smoke in his eyes never gave way to fire. "Well, if that's all, you should go home, Reid. I'll discuss it further with the team in the morning. We will have a new section chief soon."

Spencer waited, but Hotch didn't say anything else. He didn't crick his neck. Tension didn't mechanize his movements. There would be no awkward request for a sexual favor, after all. Disappointment bit at Spencer, though he had been the one to back off the last time Hotch seemed ready to ask. The disappointment annoyed him. He knew Hotch's attention would only last long enough for Spencer to orgasm, and then it was over. It would be only a weak tourniquet for the loss of Maeve. And he had to stop letting himself be party to Hotch's infidelity to Beth, no matter how much he wanted the attention.

"I'm glad you're staying," Spencer whispered. At least Hotch would still be there, part of the team. He centered them, kept them grounded. That would be enough. Spencer shuffled out.

As he headed down the stairs, Spencer glanced back. Hotch stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him. There was fire in his gaze at that moment, that dark hungry look that Hotch only gave him in private moments. But then Hotch turned back into his office, and Spencer walked out of the glass doors of the BAU.

…

After closing their Dallas long distance serial killer case, Hotch texted the team to say he would be late to meet them at the airport. Spencer sent the others ahead and went to Hotch's hotel room alone. It took a full five minutes before Hotch answered his door. He let Spencer into the room without a word. Outside, the Texas sun beat down on everything and everyone, but Hotch's room was freezing cold. His go-bag sat empty on the bed with his clothes piled next to it.

"Something bothering you, Hotch?" Spencer asked. It seemed strange that Hotch hadn't bothered to pack. Until that moment, Spencer had been convinced Hotch had been born with a packed go-bag.

Hotch wore only an undershirt at the moment, one that clung to his trim form. His button down shirt, tie, and suit jacket were laid neatly over a chair. "Why would anything be bothering me?"

"I don't know. But you did snipe a sniper."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

Spencer sighed. Trying to understand Hotch was one of the greatest puzzles he had ever confronted in his life. Perhaps that was why he kept trying to solve it. He studied the bland watercolor painting on the wall for a few moments as he decided what to say.

"Do you ever wonder what kind of killer you would be?" Spencer asked. "If you ever snapped and became a criminal, I mean."

Hotch glared at Spencer. "Excuse me?"

"I think I'd be a sexual sadist. The sort that uses violence as a substitute for the sex act." Spencer tapped his lips. "Likely because of some sort of psychotic break. What about you?"

"You're not sadistic. Rather the opposite." Hotch turned to his clothes and neatly rolled a shirt before placing it in the bag.

"I think you'd be a long distance serial killer. Very efficient. Very dangerous."

Hotch paused, but didn't turn around. "Are you trying to make me angry?"

"No, I'm trying to get you to talk about whatever it is that's bothering you."

After a long moment, Hotch exhaled and sat on his bed. He didn't meet Spencer's gaze. "Colin Bramwell hesitated to kill Maya Carcani. I didn't hesitate to kill him."

"And because of that, you saved Maya Carcani."

"Did I? It's not like killing Bramwell erases any of the abuses she suffered. She's alive. Not saved."

The truth of Hotch's words left Spencer unsettled. It wasn't their job to save people—just their lives. And perhaps accepting that was the hardest part of the job. Spencer knew how cases—even the mild ones—could drive people in the BAU to quit or worse. They had lost Gideon for less. So Spencer walked over to the bed and started rolling Hotch's clothing for him. Hotch eyed him with a slight frown, but said nothing.

"I suppose if I asked if you wanted a blowjob, you'd say no," Hotch said after a long moment.

Spencer's body temperature rose at the suggestion. "You suppose correctly."

"Because of Beth or because of Maeve?"

Having no answer for that, Spencer placed Hotch's clothing inside of the bag. He kept his attention fixed on his self-appointed task. Seeing Hotch's gaze, those eyes—that would be too much. Spencer felt grateful for the chill of the room now.

"Were you waiting for me to come in here so you could ask me that?" Spencer asked.

Hotch didn't respond. He stood from the bed and started putting on his dress shirt.

"There are many scholars who believe sexuality and gender are performances as much as identities. When you're out in public, you perform heterosexual masculinity perfectly, Hotch. No one would even think to question you. You know what to say, how to say it, when to say it. You control your behavior to the smallest micro-expression. When people make assumptions about you, they're the exact assumptions you want them to make."

"Is that a profile or an observation?" Hotch asked, buttoning his shirt.

"An observation." Spencer zipped the bag closed and finally turned to Hotch. But Hotch had his back to him as he finished dressing. Spencer kept his eyes on the way Hotch's shoulder blades worked beneath his clothing. "Do you sleep with a lot of men?"

Hotch grabbed his tie. "I used to. Especially in college. I stopped after I married Hayley."

"Have there been a lot of other men since me?" Spencer's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat again. His body was betraying the anxiety that seemed to have replaced his blood and was flowing through his veins instead.

"You were the first person I touched since Foyet attacked me. And you're still the only man," Hotch said, his tone flat. He half-glanced back at Spencer, his eyes as intent as ever. "What about you?"

"You're my first."

"You'd never been with a man before?"

"No, you don't understand. You're my first. I've never been with a woman, either. I've never had any kind of sex with anyone but you." Spencer's hands felt sweaty so he shoved them into his pockets.

Hotch turned around, fumbling with his tie. "I didn't know. I thought—never mind what I thought. I'm sorry. It had to have been disappointing."

Lying was a sin that Spencer remembered well from his time with Tobias Hankel. The truth spilled out of him in a hushed voice. "The disappointing part wasn't the sex. That was, ah, fine. The disappointing part was not being allowed to touch you and then being sent away like none of it mattered."

Hotch fell silent for a long moment. He slipped his suit jacket on. "You deserved better than me for your first. I wouldn't have asked if I knew."

"I'm not sorry that it was you, Hotch."

Hotch studied Spencer. His expression was the same as just before all their sexual encounters, hungry and intent. But he seemed sad this time. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. After a long moment, he headed to the door. "We better get to the airport," he finally said.

Spencer followed without another word, wondering if Hotch understood how much he meant to Spencer.

…

It seemed unfair that after everything George Foyet had done to Hotch, he could still hurt Hotch while dead. Even the memory of Foyet had laid Hotch out, clawing through the scars he had given Hotch four years ago. Though Hotch was on the mend, Spencer couldn't shake the same ill effects he had every time someone he cared for was in danger. For the first time in years, tension crawled over the top of his head and threatened him with a migraine. Hotch's collapse proved to be another reminder of how death haunted all of their footsteps. Its shadow had passed over Hotch once again, and but the threat of its scythe always remained. Foyet's nickname of "The Reaper" was more than apropos. 

Though the entire team took turns visiting Hotch, Spencer was the one who visited late at night, often while Hotch slept. He drew up the hospital blanket one of the nurses had given him and continued to stare at the book he was not reading. When he heard Hotch groan beside him, he glanced over, the blanket slipping back down to his lap.

Hotch licked his lips, his gaze flicking about the room. He seemed pale under the hospital light. "What time is it?" he asked, sounding groggy.

"Close to midnight. You should try to sleep again, or your sleep schedule will be ruined." Spencer leaned over to peer at Hotch's face, noting that his lips were cracked. "Do you want some water first?"

"I'd prefer a bottle of Scotch, but water will do." Hotch struggled upwards and studied Spencer. "Why are you still here? You should be home by now."

Spencer poured the water. "Please don't push yourself. I just stuck around because I can read a book here as well as anywhere else."

"Is that so?" Hotch glanced at the chair Spencer had been sitting in and then accepted the cup. "Thank you."

"Your dinner is still here, if you're hungry. It's only missing the jello cup."

"What happened to the jello cup?"

Overcome with a pang of guilt, Spencer cleared his throat and stared down at his feet. He realized he had mismatched his socks again.

"I had no idea you liked jello so much."

Spencer looked up and smiled. "It was one of the first things I learned to make when I was young. Some nights, that's all me and my mother would eat."

"You're welcome to mine. My feelings on jello are far less nostalgic." Hotch shook his head and pulled his table towards him. "I'll eat dinner now, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

"You don't have to stay, you know."

"I know," Spencer said as he sat back down on the chair.

Hotch began to eat, cutting into his salisbury steak as if it were a filet mignon. Spencer watched with his book open on his lap. Hotch's hands trembled, but he didn't spill a drop of food on his hospital gown. It took Hotch all the way through his mashed potatoes to speak. "You keep staring at me. What is it that you want to know?"

"Are you going to be all right?"

"The doctor said I could leave in a few days, but I expect that's not what you're asking me."

"You nearly died because of what George Foyet did to you. Again. I just—I just wanted to make sure you—you were—" Spencer wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his corduroys. "I just wanted to make sure that the reminder wasn't too much."

Hotch worked his jaw. "Reminder? I remember what Foyet did to me every day. It's not something I can forget."

Spencer didn't know what to say to that. Hotch ate the rest of his dinner in complete silence.

"Would you like me to leave?" Spencer finally asked.

"Do you want to leave?"

"Why do you always make it about me? About what I want?" Spencer shoved his book into his bag and stood up. Frustration seemed to boil out of him, frustration born of having to work while he worried about Hotch, about his fear of losing someone else, about Hotch constantly keeping his distance. But it wasn't fair, and he knew it wasn't fair. He forced himself to speak again in a gentler tone. "What if I want to know what you want?"

Hotch leaned back against his pillows and closed his eyes. "I dreamed of Hayley."

Spencer sat back down.

"She told me happiness was a choice," Hotch said after a long moment.

"Are you happy?"

"No. But I'm going to make that choice."

"With Beth."

Hotch opened his eyes again and turned to study Spencer. He seemed almost apologetic. "She's coming down to visit me and Jack once I leave the hospital."

"You'll be just like a family, then. Father, mother, son. All nice and neat and heteronormative. The stuff of the American dream. I could have had that, too." Spencer couldn't seem to convince his mouth to shut on its own, so he put a hand over it. His fresh embarrassment almost masked the sting of knowing that Hotch was choosing the kind of life now lost to Spencer.

Hotch's gaze was hot and sharp. "You still can, Reid. Your life is far from over. Even I found second chances, and I'm far older than you are. Hayley is right. Happiness is a choice."

There was not a day that passed where Spencer didn't think of Maeve. That he didn't think of all the things he had wanted to share with her and never got the chance. That he didn't think of her lying on the ground in a pool of blood. The pain of it had lessened, become bearable, but the emptiness remained. The emptiness had existed before Maeve, if he were honest with himself. He wondered if Hotch still felt this way, even though Hayley had been dead for years.

"What if I what I really want to make me happy isn't one of my choices?" Spencer asked.

Hotch's gaze seemed black and hungry then, eyes draped in the shadows of the room. The power of Hotch's gaze was such that it warmed him from head to toe. The raw want was everything that Spencer craved. Then Hotch looked away. "No matter what choices we make, we don't always get what we want."

After a long moment, Spencer found his voice. "I'll stay here tonight, if you want."

Hotch didn't answer, but Spencer stayed anyway.

…

With Hotch's attention back on Beth, Spencer turned his attention to his friends. Usually, when people visited Garcia's office between cases, it was so she could cheer them up. Something about Garcia's colorful personality, her small toys, and even her lollipops had the power to lift the miasma around anyone's mood. But after she confronted her criminal past and her ex-boyfriend in California, Spencer thought it high time he went to her office so he could cheer her up instead.

"Oh, my word, Dr. Reid, you brought me yellow tulips and sunflowers and pink carnations!" Garcia squealed when he set the bouquet on the only space on her desk not plastered with computers. "Are you trying to win my heart? To compete with the delectable Derek Morgan?"

Spencer handed her the note, in which he had simply drawn a smiley face. "How could I compete with Morgan for your anything? He has a six-pack abdomen. I have a rash around my belly button at the moment. I think it's from the waistband of my new boxer-briefs. I might be allergic."

Garcia blinked so hard that Spencer worried her false eyelashes might come loose. "That was entirely too much information. And as adorable as I'm sure your belly button rash is, the flowers go a longer way to a girl's heart. Not as far as Morgan's six-pack, but pretty far."

"You once told me that you had absolutely no sexual interest in me. I didn't realize flowers could change that." Spencer eyed her as she sipped at her mug of tea. There had been a time when he hoped Garcia might notice him, but she had never displayed any romantic interest in him at all. He hardly registered the disappointment after having so many others.

"Oh, I have all kinds of hearts to give out to handsome men I know. True, Morgan commands my red hot passion heart, but I have a small glittery pink heart just for you and your adorable sweater vest collection. It is the most platonic of my hearts, my sweet angel, but a heart nonetheless."

"Really? What kind of heart do you have for Hotch?"

Garcia choked on her tea. "Hotch?"

"You said you had hearts for handsome men. Morgan isn't the only handsome man in the FBI."

"You think _Hotch_ is handsome?"

"Well, of course. Doesn't everyone?"

Garcia leaned back against her chair and waved around a pen with a large pink puffball at the end. "Exactly what do you think is so handsome about our be-suited leader?"

Spencer suddenly felt trapped, wondering if he was outing himself. It hadn't occurred to him that some people didn't find Hotch desirable. "Well, I mean. He has really great hair. You said so yourself."

"Oh, you're right about that. Every hair that he had on his head when I first met him is still tenaciously clinging to his scalp. He should be on TV, advertising shampoo. I'd buy it. Anything else?"

"I really don't think I'm the best qualified to answer that question," Spencer said, eyeing the door.

Garcia leaned forward, grinning with the same ferocity Spencer would expect from a great white shark. "Oh, but maybe you are. Is it his ass? He does have a nice rounded ass. JJ was the first to point it out."

"Uhh."

"Or is it his thighs? I remember him in that spandex during his triathlon. Corded like Naval warship ropes, those thighs."

They were indeed incredible thighs. Spencer had more than a few fantasies about being trapped between them. He inched back towards the door. A drop of sweat rolled down his face.

Garcia tapped the puffball pen against her chin. "Is it the eyes? That intense, burning gaze? With those incredibly thick, dark lashes? Bedroom eyes, they call them. I'll bet he dropped an awful lot of panties with that gaze of his back in the day. Maybe even a few boxer-briefs."

Spencer backed towards the door, his face feeling as hot as lava. Just as he whirled around to make his exit, he slammed into a person. Yelping, Spencer and files filled with police photos crashed to the floor. When he looked up, a very annoyed Hotch glared down.

"Reid, please watch where you're going," Hotch said, and helped Spencer to his feet. The he bent down to pick up his fallen case files. The motion revealed the rounded ass that Garcia had just spoken about. Spencer felt hot and his palms prickled.

"I have to come—go! I mean go!" Spencer took half a breath, wishing something would end this horrible situation, like a new serial murder case or a building evacuation or even an alien invasion. He fled from Garcia's office then, leaving behind a bewildered Hotch and a cackling Garcia.

Spencer was only grateful Garcia hadn't mentioned Hotch's devilishly skilled mouth.

…

Later that day, Garcia peered over the plastic partition around Spencer's desk. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," she whispered.

Spencer swiveled his chair around and returned to working on building a profile for the consultation file Hotch had handed him earlier. Hotch had the decency not to breathe a word of anything he knew or didn't know from the scene in Garcia's office. Garcia, however, apparently was determined to be the most indecent person Spencer knew.

"You're mad at me!" Garcia exclaimed.

"I am not. I'm busy."

"You are. You're furious with me. You have your back to me, you're sitting sideways in your chair, and your handwriting is so bad that even Blake couldn't read it."

Spencer glared up at her. "Did you just profile me?"

Garcia sidled around the partition. "What? You profilers don't have the corner market on understanding how people work." She set down a _Doctor Who_ figurine on his desk. "Peace offering?"

Spencer eyed the tiny, posable Fourth Doctor. He ripped his gaze off of it, determined not to let it melt his resolve, and tried to give her his best approximation of a Hotch glare.

"Oh, you are so adorable when you are angry. You even poke out your bottom lip when you scowl."

Spencer bowed his head in defeat.

Garcia plopped herself on his desk, her floral print skirt spreading over his pile of consultation files. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you really liked him. Well, I mean I do now. I figured it out about five minutes after you ran out. It would have been sooner, but Hotch had the nerve to distract me with work."

Though he made a noise of protest, Spencer knew nothing he could say now would convince Garcia he didn't have a thing for Hotch. Especially since he actually did.

Garcia ruffled his hair. "I forget you're sensitive sometimes."

"Hmph."

"You know, you're not the only queer person who ever worked for the BAU."

"So I've heard," Spencer said, wondering if she knew about Hotch. He glanced around the office. To his relief, no one was within earshot.

"I mean, I am, too." Garcia stood up. "Forgive me for teasing you?"

Spencer stared. "You?"

"Well, I prefer men, but I love the ladies on occasion. You don't have a preference?"

Spencer considered. "I'm not sure. My only real romantic experience was with Maeve." Saying her name came easier now. "My only sexual experiences were with a man."

"You've had sexual experiences? Plural?" Garcia balled up her fists and grinned. "Morgan totally owes me a hundred dollars now."

"What?"

"I mean, whatever you prefer, I would never let anyone use that against you. Don't you worry. And it's good that you picked someone other than Morgan for your own affections. Less competition for me. Especially since you're always showing off your brain around your workcrush. You like attention, too."

Before Spencer could respond, Garcia flounced back off towards her office. And just like that, he realized had forgiven her.

…

Only Garcia could come up with the idea that the team needed a night out together after JJ's abduction. As inappropriate as it seemed, it worked because it was inappropriate. She arranged for everyone to meet at a bar on their last night with Prentiss before she returned to London. Even JJ came, though she never left Will's side during the party. She looked drawn and wore a sweater five sizes too large for her, but she smiled and laughed. Spencer recognized the haunted look in her eyes that no laughter could hide. He had seen it in the mirror after Tobias Hankel had abducted and tortured him.

When the group broke off into individual conversations, Spencer somehow wound up talking to Hotch the most. Hotch had barely spoken to Spencer since reaffirming his relationship with Beth. The sudden attention left Spencer dizzier than the watered down cocktails he was drinking.

"I see you're drinking beer. Do you know how to turn root beer into beer?" Spencer asked. He had been dying to tell someone that joke since Garcia had emailed it to him, but the timing had never seemed right until then.

Hotch sipped his beer, looking thoughtful. "I have no idea. How?"

Spencer grinned. "You put it into a square cup!"

To Spencer's surprise, Hotch started laughing. Really laughing. Spencer realized how little he had seen that in the decade they had known each other. Hotch's smile was a bright thing; it lit up the entire room. Spencer wanted more.

"That's really clever," Hotch said. "I like that one."

"You mean that? Technically, it's incorrect. A cup is a three dimensional object, and a square is two dimensional. But I allow the error for the sake of humor."

"How generous of you," Hotch said, chuckling. "Actually, I have a joke that you might appreciate."

The idea of Hotch knowing—much less telling—a joke left Spencer gaping. "You do?"

"I do. Why is _Star Wars_ more fashion-friendly than _Star Trek_?"

Spencer snickered. "Because it's safe to wear a red shirt in _Star Wars_?"

Hotch gave Spencer one of his trademark unblinking glares. "Dammit, Reid, you stole my joke. I only had the one."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Spencer sputtered. "I didn't mean—"

After glaring for a moment longer, Hotch started laughing again. "You're too easy."

"That wasn't nice."

"You stole my punchline. I'm allowed to get you worked up in revenge."

"I suppose you are," Spencer admitted. Seeing Hotch smile and laugh captivated him. He so rarely got to appreciate the dimples in Hotch's cheeks, or the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. His shoulders didn't seem as stiff. Hotch was never as uptight when off the clock as when he was, but this was different. If Hotch had tried to choose happiness, it seemed he had chosen wisely.

As the evening wore down, Hotch's gaze grew smoky and intense. The hunger in his eyes surprised Spencer; he had been sure Hotch had forgotten it. Knowing it still existed was a strange relief, but Spencer wasn't ready to be unfaithful to his memory of Maeve, and Hotch was still with Beth. And Beth apparently had the power to make Hotch very happy. So Spencer volunteered to drive Prentiss to the airport before anyone else could. Since he was the only one sober enough to drive, no one else fought him. By the time he got to his car, his own mood had darkened.

"You all right, Reid?" Prentiss asked after climbing into his passenger seat.

Spencer pulled out of the parking lot. "I'm not the one you should be worried about."

"Why not?"

"JJ is the one we should all be worried about."

"We should. But I also know JJ will make it." Prentiss studied him those big dark eyes of hers. "Just like you made it."

Spencer sighed. "And you."

"We've all been through hell. And we've all made it."

Not knowing what to say, Spencer lapsed into silence. The rain pattered against the car and created halos of light around the street lamps lining the highway. A large semi-truck passed them, leaving Spencer's car shuddering in its wake.

After some time, Prentiss spoke. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

Spencer blinked. "What?"

"Pining after someone married."

"I'm not sure what you—"

"Well, he's not married anymore, true. But he's still dating Beth, isn't he?"

"Yes," Spencer choked out. He swallowed and focused on the road ahead.

Prentiss glanced out of her window. "It didn't take me long after joining the BAU to figure out that you had a thing for him. About halfway through our first case, I knew. I didn't think much of it until you two started sleeping together a couple of years ago."

"It wasn't supposed to change anything. And then he found a girlfriend. It never mattered."

"I'm sorry, Reid."

"I had a girlfriend, too. And she died."

"I know. And I'm sorry about that, too."

Spencer wiped his face. His fingers came away wet. He kept wiping until they came away dry. After taking a moment to collect himself, he realized how selfish he sounded. "I'm sorry, too. I made this all about me. Just like I did with JJ when you came back. And it's not. You're leaving again. Because of JJ."

"JJ and I don't work like you and Hotch. It's a little more complicated. And that's why I have to leave." Prentiss's smile was wan. "Let me ask you something personal about Hotch: is he the one who asked for sex, or was it just you?"

The answer tumbled out of Spencer before he could catch it. "Him. He wanted oral sex. No kissing, no touching, nothing else. He never wanted me to reciprocate. Not even once."

"Maybe you're looking at this all wrong. You mattered. You have to know at least a little of what Foyet did to Hotch. That's not an easy thing to recover from. You know that. Maybe Hotch is still trying to heal, and you were part of his healing process. He asked you for sex. He trusted you to not push his boundaries. That has to count for something."

With the road clear, Spencer studied Prentiss for a moment. Her perfectly straight hair framed her face, a face bearing no mark of judgment. She exuded warmth and understanding, as she always had. Emily Prentiss was a protective force, a stable object in an impermanent universe. She made everyone else around her better for that stability.

"Are you happy in London, Emily?"

"I think so, yes. I even met someone. You'd like her—she's into _Doctor Who_ , too. And would eat Indian food every night, if I let her."

"Then both you and she have excellent taste."

Prentiss laughed. "Thank you." She swiftly sobered. "Whatever happens in your future, make the decisions you need to make. Hotch is the weak one in this matter, Spencer. Not you."

Spencer couldn't help but return her smile. "I miss you, Emily."

"I miss you, too."

They spent the rest of the drive to the airport in comfortable silence.

…

In Spencer's opinion, Valentine's Day was the worst holiday ever. Most of the time, Spencer didn't mind spending a Friday night alone. Often, he even looked forward to the quiet and the solitude. But everything about Valentine's Day and its insistent heteronormative agenda seemed to have been designed to make him, personally, feel bad about all his life choices. And while it wasn't the first Valentine's Day that Spencer had spent without Maeve, Valentine's Day stood as a reminder of all his missed chances. So he buried himself in work long after even the other singles filed out.

But even work had to finish eventually. After finishing his last case report, Spencer headed for the elevator. To his surprise, he found Hotch stepping up beside him, coat on and briefcase in hand. He seemed busy texting on his phone, but nodded once at Spencer.

Outside of work, they had spoken little since the night at the bar with Prentiss. Spencer licked his lips, determined to recapture that connection, if nothing else. "Heading to New York for Valentine's?"

Hotch glanced at Spencer, his eyes hooded. "No. I'm spending the weekend with Jack. He's looking forward to all the half-price chocolates I'm going to buy him tomorrow."

"Oh." That seemed odd. The entire Valentine's weekend seemed the perfect excuse to visit Beth in New York. Spencer tried to glance at Hotch's phone, but the lockscreen picture of Hotch and Jack at a soccer game had already popped up.

"How about you? Any plans for tonight?" Hotch asked.

"Oh, I'm going to my favorite Indian restaurant. Then I'm going to go home and study some Korean before bed. I only understood seventy-six percent of the last Korean film I watched. Twenty-one percent of what I didn't understand was due to colloquialisms and spoken variables."

"What about the other three percent?"

"Ear wax. That reminds me, I need to buy Q-tips."

Hotch chuckled, his smile spreading wide enough to highlight his excellent cheekbones. Spencer couldn't help but smile back, though he wasn't sure exactly what was so funny. Hotch's smiles always proved infectious. No wonder he smiled so rarely at work. It wouldn't do to have too many FBI agents smiling. Some government official would no doubt suspect a terrorist plot.

Spencer followed Hotch onto the elevator, trying to think of something else to say that would keep Hotch smiling. Hotch studied his phone and then texted another message quickly, tilting the screen in such a way that Spencer couldn't see. When he glanced up from his phone, his knuckles whitened around the handle of his briefcase.

"Instead of Indian food, how do you feel about sushi?" Hotch asked.

"I do like sushi. California rolls, especially. But finding a sushi place available on Valentine's Day seems ambitious. And I'd be competing with all those couples for seating, since take-out sushi isn't really that great. I think I'll have better luck with Indian."

Hotch sighed. "I mean eating sushi with me. I know a quiet place. If you'd like to go, that is. Jack is spending the night with Jennifer."

"Oh." Spencer realized that even though he had worked with Hotch for a decade and had infrequent sexual encounters with him for one of those years, they had never eaten alone together. Unless one counted them choking down take-out at a police station while they worked a case, and Spencer didn't. 

"I take it from your silence that your answer is a 'no'." Hotch nodded and kept his gaze trained on the elevator doors as they slid open.

"You didn't actually ask me a yes-or-no question, though."

Hotch paused halfway through the elevator door and glanced back at Spencer. "Come again?"

"You asked me how I felt about sushi. Then you made a series of statements without forming a question."

The elevator door tried to close on Hotch, but it bumped against his shoulder and slid back open. The hallway outside was blessedly empty. Hotch's gaze was dark, his expression difficult to read. "The question was implied, Reid."

"Implied, but not asked. It's a bit of a loaded question, given the holiday. So I think it's the sort of question that should be asked, clearly and explicitly, before I can answer with a 'yes' or a 'no'."

Hotch considered him for a long moment. "Would you like to have dinner with me at a sushi place I know?"

"If it's just dinner," Spencer said. As much as he craved Hotch, his stomach squirmed too much at the thought of being intimate with him again. It was too soon, and his wounds still too raw. And Hotch was still taken. He wanted to matter, not to be trapped in another unchanging, meaningless sexual event. But dinner he could accept. That mattered.

"If that's what you want it to be, then that's what it will be."

Spencer smiled. "Then yes."

…

The Valentine's dinner proved enough of a success that Spencer felt more comfortable around Hotch than ever. They talked more outside of work. They were almost real friends. So when Spencer arrived at the BAU one morning, Starbucks in hand, to discover that Hotch had allowed a group of small children to infiltrate the office, Spencer felt mildly betrayed. The children followed a pretty brunette like ducklings—all except for the one playing with Spencer's _Doctor Who_ figurine. The boy put it back the moment Spencer approached and scampered towards the rest of the group.

After shoving his figurine into his pocket, Spencer checked his work phone. He had missed a text from Hotch. The BAU was hosting Jack's class for Career Day. According to the email, Spencer was expected to sit at his desk quietly and definitely not share any statistics, case files, or pictures with the children.

"Hotch doesn't trust me," Spencer moaned. Above in the conference room, Garcia and Rossi were helping Hotch welcome the children. Morgan sat at his own desk across from Spencer.

Morgan laughed. "Don't worry about it, pretty boy. He's trying to make a good impression, and Jack's teacher is a woman."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Reid. C'mon." Morgan took a sip from his mug and studied his laptop screen. "Your game with the ladies is a little weak."

"What game?"

"And you don't always get on with kids."

"I get along fine with some kids."

"Kids? Plural? Name one other kid beside Henry that you have regular contact with."

Spencer glared at Morgan as he turned on his own laptop. "So, if I'm down here because I'm not good with women or children, why are you here?"

"Because my game is too strong. Hotch doesn't want me stealing his thunder," Morgan said with a laugh. "They'll clear out after lunch. Which we get to eat for free, by the way. Hotch paid for a banquet of hotdogs and hamburgers."

"Oh, really? Will there be sauerkraut?"

"I didn't ask."

To his delight, Spencer found there was indeed sauerkraut waiting at the banquet. After Hotch's demonstration, the children were taken to the banquet room. Once the kids finished eating, Hotch opened the doors and let the rest of the BAU in. There was practically a stampede. Spencer got pushed back to the middle of the line, despite being one of the first to arrive. It reminded him of being in college. The use of the words "free lunch" had just as powerful an effect on FBI agents as college students.

Once he piled as much sauerkraut on his hot dog as he could before being pushed out of the line, Spencer returned to his desk to eat. He hardly took a bite before Jack appeared by his desk, his face as somber and serious as his father's.

Spencer glanced around in alarm. Morgan, who usually played with Jack, was nowhere to be found. No doubt he was snuggled in Garcia's office, having lunch with her. Hotch stood outside the glass doors of the BAU, speaking to Jack's teacher. Jack's very flirty teacher. Spencer frowned.

"Henry told me that you know magic," Jack said, reminding Spencer of his presence.

"Oh. Yes, I do." Spencer studied Jack. He barely knew the boy. Hotch kept his private life very private. Though Jack favored his mother's coloring and gentle bearing, when he was focused, he favored his father. Talking to Hotch's son made Spencer nervous. He never understood how Morgan so effortlessly played with him. Jack was essentially the Crown Prince of the FBI as far as Spencer was concerned.

"Great!" Jack beamed. "Can I see?"

"Er, see?"

"Your magic. Can I?"

Spencer grinned, slipping into a role he knew well. "Magic is in the eye of the beholder. It's all about the senses, especially sight. If you control that sense, you can do magic." Spencer brushed a thumb over Jack's eyebrow. "Is something in your eye?"

"My eye?" Jack put a hand to his face and a quarter fell off his brow and onto his palm. "Wow!"

"Huh." Spencer sat back in his chair. "You didn't ask me how I did that."

"A real magician never reveals his secrets, right?" Jack handed the quarter back.

"Right."

"Thanks. See you later, Dr. Reid."

Surprised that Jack remembered his name, he watched as Jack headed through the doors out to his father's side. Hotch quickly stepped behind him, putting Jack between himself and the teacher. Hotch's smile seemed a bit strained. Jack, on the other hand, seemed amused.

Morgan returned to his desk, carrying a can of Coke from the banquet. He glanced through the glass doors. "Damn, Hotch seems to have put a mighty thirst in that woman."

"Thirst? She doesn't seem particularly interested in beverages. She seems quite interested in Hotch, though."

JJ walked by, smirking. "You know she's got it bad if Spence noticed."

Spencer watched as Hotch left with Jack's class, presumably to walk them out through security. He started working on his consultation reports again. When Hotch returned and headed up to his office, Spencer quickly found something for Hotch to sign and followed him up there.

"Jack's teacher spent a lot of time talking to you after lunch," Spencer said as he slid the documents across Hotch's desk.

Hotch eyed the documents. "She just wanted to thank me for the presentation."

"Expressing gratitude doesn't often involve so much wrist-flashing."

Hotch glanced up and tilted his chin. He set his pen down. "I don't understand."

"Female flirting often involves flashing the wrists and palms. Whether playing with her neck, her hair, her chin, or simply draping her arm suggestively over her purse, she spent the entire conversation with you flashing her wrists."

"Yes, I am aware of that. What I don't understand is why you're bringing it up."

Spencer fumbled at his collar. He couldn't fathom why it bothered him. Hotch had Beth, and Spencer had the fading ghost of Maeve. But his craving for Hotch's attention seemed to burn a little brighter every day, especially since Valentine's Day. It was frustrating to confront how little attention he merited. He shouldn't feel that way, but he did.

"I'm sorry. It's not my business. I'll come back later for the papers." Spencer turned to leave, rubbing his neck, irritated with himself now.

"Three times."

Spencer glanced back. "What?"

"You flashed me your wrists three times during our brief conversation." Hotch pulled the document folder to him, signed his name, and then held it out to Spencer. His bare wrist peeked out from the cuff of his white shirt. "I don't think it's exclusively feminine flirtatious behavior."

Face heating, Spencer took the folder and rushed out of the office as fast as he could without tripping over the furniture.

…

Just a week after being shot in Texas, Spencer returned to work. The bandage remained on his neck, and moving his head too much still made the wound twinge. He hadn't been cleared for duty yet, but being locked in his apartment, recuperating, with only his own thoughts and daytime soap operas for company, proved intolerable. He needed to get out and make himself useful. If he just sat at his desk, doing paperwork, he figured no one would object to his return.

Spencer thought wrong: everyone objected. Within five minutes, someone—he couldn't tell if it was Morgan, JJ, or Garcia—must have told Hotch. Within ten minutes, Hotch marched up to Spencer's desk with an expression that could've got him cast in a _Terminator_ film.

"No. We're not playing this game. You were shot in the neck. I'm personally driving you back to your apartment to make sure you stay there."

"But my car—" Spencer began.

"Will be driven to your house later today. We're leaving. Now." Hotch grabbed Spencer's messenger bag before Spencer could, then swung away.

Morgan eyed him over his mug of coffee. "Get to hopping, pretty boy. Don't come back until that bandage comes off, or next time Hotch might handcuff you to your bed." The suggestion, even in jest, heated Spencer's cheeks.

"And not in the kinky life-affirmative 'please spank me harder, I've been a bad agent' way, either," Garcia said as she shut down Spencer's laptop.

"I'm pretty sure being handcuffed is not life-affirmative for most people," JJ added from her desk.

Garcia gave Spencer a sober look. "A tube of lube, a fur-lined paddle, and a safe word will make it life-affirmative, promise."

Resigned to a miserable fate of rest and recuperation for the next week, Spencer followed Hotch out to his car. Hotch's old Porsche Cayenne had apparently been traded out for a bright red BMW sedan. The color seemed a bit bold for Hotch. Spencer wondered if Jack had picked it.

Hotch said little until he pulled the car out of the parking lot. "I really need you to do me a personal favor: stop getting shot."

Spencer blinked and stared at Hotch. "I, er—I'll try?"

"I'd appreciate that." Hotch worked his jaw. His sunglasses obscured his eyes. "When you got shot in the knee last time, they didn't even tell me until I got out of the hospital."

This conversation was swiftly making Spencer feel guilty for being injured in a gunfight. "Sorry."

Hotch sighed, turning onto the highway. "And I'm sorry I didn't visit you in the hospital. I needed to focus on closing the case."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

The leading question left Spencer quiet. He felt that he did understand, but Hotch seemed determined to make him doubt that. Hotch drove him home without further comment. But once there, Hotch insisted on walking Spencer to his apartment and carrying the messenger bag so the weight wouldn't drag on Spencer's neck and shoulders. Spencer knew arguing would be pointless.

"Thank you," Spencer said as Hotch set the bag on the couch. The same place where Blake had set it a few days ago. A sudden fear gripped Spencer, whispering that Hotch would leave him as Blake had, but he shook it off. Hotch wouldn't leave. He had always stayed before. Spencer didn't want to consider him leaving again.

Hotch straightened his jacket and glanced around the apartment. The last time he had been there was the first time they had sex. Spencer felt a little awkward at the memory. He wanted that closeness again, but he wanted so much more than Hotch had ever been willing to give him.

"I do understand, you know," Spencer said. "The job always comes first. You will always finish the job. No matter what else happens. You can't stop. It's who you are. Who you need to be."

Hotch was quiet for a long time, his gaze fixed on the couch he had given Spencer a blowjob upon. His jaw worked, and he didn't blink. He almost never blinked. Then he smiled, a ghostly thing that appeared for half of a second before he turned his intense gaze on Spencer. He said nothing before closing the distance between them in two large steps.

Spencer tensed for a moment, then relaxed when Hotch cupped his cheek. That small gesture had meant more to him than any amount of orgasms. It was tender and Hotch looked at him like he was all that mattered for that moment. But this time was different than all the other times. Hotch's thumb brushed over Spencer's lips. He was close, close enough that Spencer could smell his cologne—Old Spice again. Spencer had a random urge to ask when Hotch had switched back, but then Hotch's mouth covered his, and he forgot everything.

Though Spencer had kissed people before, none of those kisses were like Hotch's. The slide of Hotch's lips scintillated every nerve he possessed. Hotch drew him close, hand pressed to the small of Spencer's back, and deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into Spencer's mouth. Hotch seemed as hungry for Spencer's mouth as he had once been for his cock, practically stealing the air from Spencer's lungs.

Hotch tasted of bad coffee, but it was the sweetest taste Spencer knew. He fumbled at Hotch's suit collar, overwhelmed by the attention—and the sudden freedom to reciprocate. Spencer sucked on Hotch's tongue and slid his hand up to stroke Hotch's neck, fingers brushing against the stubble of Hotch's jaw, palms soaking in the warmth of Hotch's skin. Spencer's pants tightened as Hotch cupped his ass. Their first kiss was everything a first kiss should be.

Then Hotch pulled away, his mouth moist and pink, gaze dark and electric. He cleared his throat and straightened his suit jacket. Spencer licked his lips, panting, realizing he couldn't make himself stop wanting Hotch. And it seemed Hotch hadn't stopped wanting him. Spencer's pain over Maeve's death had started to splinter at the edges. Soon, it might even break into hard to find pieces. But everything that was in the way before remained in the way: Hotch's insistence on the lack of intimacy. The memory of Maeve. Beth. The job. Spencer took a step back. As always, Hotch instantly took the hint.

"I'll see you next week," Hotch whispered before he left.

Spencer collapsed on his sofa and stared up at his ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.


End file.
